Читать книгу When Chocolate Is Not Enough... - Нина Харрингтон - Страница 7

DAISY FLYNN squeezed into the cramped office at the side of the restaurant kitchen and collapsed down on a tiny metal stool. She had made it with only minutes to spare, after a mad dash back to her kitchen to pick up an emergency supply of chocolate desserts for the restaurant. The head chef at the restaurant in one of London’s premier art galleries had become one of her best customers, so this was one delivery that she was happy to make in person.

Marco had given her the chance to produce a range of artisan chocolates and desserts that she had only dreamt of in her father’s bakery all those years ago. And every one of them was perfect practice for the only thing she had truly ever wanted. The one thing she had slaved and practised and experimented for day after day, week after week, month after month. Year after year—and it had been years since Paris.

Her very own chocolate shop, serving droolicious artisan chocolates made from the finest organic chocolate to her secret and unique recipes and designs. Her shop was going to be every girl’s fantasy of chocolate heaven.

That was her dream. And she was almost there!

She had the recipes. She had ideas for the shop and what its tantalising interior would look like. She could even imagine what it would smell like, with all the chocolates on display.

It would be amazing.

All she needed now was a great reliable source of organic fine cocoa and she would be ready to walk into the bank with a business plan that would knock their socks off. Plus a few samples of the actual goods if the discussions got tricky.

It was going to happen—because she was going to make it happen.

She would finally be able to show the world what a baker’s daughter from a small country town could do, given the chance—just as her dad had predicted she would. On her own. She didn’t need some famous-name chocolatier taking the credit—not again.

It was so sad that her father hadn’t lived long enough to see her achieve her dream. Even if it did mean that today she’d had to jog most of the way through the streets of London with her precious cargo of desserts. She was tired, hot, out of breath and moist in places she would rather not be moist—but close enough to her goal to put a smile on her face.

In fact Daisy was still catching her breath when Marco waltzed in, wiping his hands on the towel tucked into the waistband of his apron and then reaching across the desk to shake Daisy’s hand.

‘Thanks for coming at such short notice, Daisy. It has been mad out there today, and we are fully booked with coach parties of tourists every lunch and dinner service for the next two weeks.’ Marco raised his right hand. ‘I’m not complaining. Far from it. But it leaves me with a problem. A big one.’ And he pointed straight at Daisy. ‘Namely you, young lady.’

Daisy swallowed down her anxiety, but leant forward to reply. ‘Me? Is there a problem with your order? I checked it through with the sous chef when I delivered the dessert trays. I’m sorry if …’

Marco waved his fingers at her and sat back in his chair. ‘No, no. There is no problem with your food at all. In fact it is just the opposite. I knew when I tasted your work that the chocolate dessert range would be popular with the ladies who lunch, but I had no clue just how many portions we would serve. You’ve seen the orders double these past few weeks, and we actually ran out of that flourless melting middle cake last night. Our guests were not happy. And that brings me to why I’ve asked you to hang around for a few minutes.’

He leant his elbows on top of a pile of papers on the desk and formed a tent with his clever long fingers. ‘I have a proposition for you. Right now I order your chocolate from Tara’s company, and that was okay for the occasional one off event. But that was before I found out just how good you really were. We look after four art galleries in this city, and the bottom line is we need a professional chocolatier like yourself heading up our patisserie section.’

The breath froze in Daisy’s lungs as she tried to come up with a suitable reply, but she was too stunned to do more than stare.

‘Oh, I know,’ Marco said, flicking away her silent protestations. ‘You want to open a chocolate shop with your name over the door. You made that clear the first day you walked into my kitchen—and there is nothing wrong with that. Call it Flynn’s Fancies, or whatever. But think about this.’

His long arms pressed hard against the papers on the desk and Marco’s intense dark brown eyes seemed to burn a hole in Daisy’s forehead.

‘What if we put your name on the menu and make this a full-time job, with your own kitchen area and a sous chef to help you? You could reach hundreds of diners every day and have the flexibility to experiment with new ideas. Buy the chocolate you want. Best of ingredients. Best of everything. The job is yours if you want it.’ Then he gave a short shrug and grinned. ‘You can breathe again now.’

Daisy realised that she had been holding her breath the whole time the head chef had been talking, and grasped hold of the desk as she sucked in enough air to help clear her dizzy head.

‘Wow. Thank you. I certainly wasn’t expecting an offer like this. I am flattered—I really am—but as I said before my heart is still set on opening my own artisan chocolate shop. The restaurant work is brilliant, and we really are grateful for it, but if I did come here it would only be for a short time, and Tara would lose the business after I left. I’m not sure that it’s fair to either of us. Does that make sense?’

Marco sniffed once before replying, ‘How close are you to opening your own shop?’

Daisy pushed her hands flat under her bottom to stop herself from bouncing with excitement. ‘So close I can feel it. The real problem is that I want to make my own chocolate. I mean—from scratch. Right now I am buying commercial blends and they are good—very good—but they’re not there yet. It could take years to achieve that perfect blend. Or it could be months. I simply don’t know.’

Marco’s reply was to fling open his arms wide as he rocked back in his chair. ‘Then come and work for us. We can buy in bulk, get good deals from specialist suppliers, and I can guarantee you some room to experiment.’ He waved his right hand in the air with a casual twist. ‘Think of our diners as your product testers. We win—you win. And we can still use Tara for other things. It could work very well.’

He paused and pursed his lips before shrugging.

‘It makes sense for us to find a wonderful dessert chef to look after all of our catering operations, and I would like it to be you. But if you decide not to take up my offer there is a long list of other chefs who would like to show us what they can do—and some of them have worked with chocolate before. They could come up with some interesting recipes.’

‘But not the same as mine.’ Daisy smiled, her ego marginally more inflated than normal.

‘Perhaps not. But still fantastic. And then, of course, we would not need to use outside supplies. Perhaps you should talk this over with Tara? She might have an opinion about that.’

‘Oh. Yes. Tara. Of course.’ Daisy’s heart sank. ‘How long …? When do you need to hear back from me?’

‘I was hoping you would call me in the next few weeks.’ Marco smiled persuasively. ‘It can be fun working here. We have great customers who love their food. Let me help you to make up your mind. We only have a few lunch guests left, but some have ordered your chocolate and almond cake. How would you like to go out into the restaurant and hear what they have to say about your work? You might find that interesting.’

Daisy blinked, and swallowed down a lump of panic before squeaking out, ‘Do you mean right now? I’m not sure I’m ready for that.’

Except Marco had already made the decision, and was on his feet rooting though a pile of chef’s jackets hanging up behind the office door. ‘This is your chance to hear what the customers think about your work face to face. Here you go. This one should fit nicely. Ready?’

Before Daisy could change her mind she’d exchanged jackets and followed one of London’s most highly respected chefs out into the kitchen. Peering out over the serving hatch, she could see a few tables were still occupied.

Marco wiggled his fingers towards a table on the left. ‘Go and have a chat. You never know—the restaurant trade might be perfect for you after all.’

‘That table?’ Daisy stepped forward nervously and peered across the room towards a charming young couple who were obviously having a long, romantic lunch together.

The man’s back was to her, but the woman was dressed so elegantly that Daisy automatically ran her hands down the front of her clothing and checked that her uniform was clean and tidy. She knew the sort. This girl looked as though she had been born with perfect poise and style and did not have to try very hard to be stunning in any situation. In other words exactly the sort of girl who, quite innocently, always made her feel totally clumsy, tongue-tied and inadequate—like a country bumpkin out for a spree in the city, who did not truly belong there.

Then the man turned slightly and she took a closer look. There was no mistaking the shaggy, long dark blond hair, and the heavy stubble that spread above those bow lips, across a square chin and almost to the end of his prominent cheekbones.

It was the man from the food stall who had bought the chocolate rabbits. His black jacket was hanging over the back of his chair, and he was wearing a fitted black cotton long-sleeved shirt which had seen better and cleaner days. On any other man it would have looked scruffy and washed out, and hardly suitable for a lovely restaurant lunch. But drat if it did not suit his broad shoulders as he stretched forward. How irritating was that?

His hair looked as though he had just woken up and raked it through with his fingers, but for some reason the tousled look fitted him perfectly.

She gulped down something close to apprehension. Um. She had a fair idea of exactly what his response would be if she marched up and asked him what he thought about the chocolate dessert.

‘Forget that couple,’ the chef whispered in her ear, and Daisy breathed out a sigh of relief. ‘They are still waiting for dessert service. But those two ladies over there are just paying the bill. Perfect. Try them first, before looping back. Have fun! ’

Max had gone through a huge portion of lasagne, two servings of delicious warm bread, and had just inhaled a platter of cheese and biscuits when the waiter placed a dark circle of aromatic dense chocolate loveliness in front of Kate, then stepped around with his portion.

Max could already smell the chocolate, and instantly pushed his cheese plate to one side, ready for his dessert.

Kate responded with a small laugh. ‘I know that you are dying to tell me everything about this chocolate, so I’m going to simply sit here and drink my coffee while you enjoy yourself. Feel free to dig in any time you like. You do know that I shall insist that the chefs use Treveleyn Estate chocolate for my wedding reception, don’t you?’

Max chuckled. ‘Of course. You can consider it my wedding present to you both. So, what do we have here?’

He lifted the plate so that he could inhale the fragrance of the chocolate base, trying to ignore the sideways glances from the waiting staff and other diners, then cut straight across the middle of the circular cake, separated the two halves and tried smelling it again.

Oh, wow, that was good. Seriously good. A chocolate and almond liqueur was laced through the mixture, but it was not too powerful to conceal the wonderful spicy and deep aroma of the chocolate.

Only then did he scoop up a generous bite-sized portion and wrap his mouth around the cake, before sliding the spoon away to leave … a small miracle. The smooth, smooth chocolate melted on his tongue, releasing more and more layers of flavour. Not too sweet, and certainly not sickly, the cocoa butter had been blended with cream, finely ground nuts and butter to create the closest thing to a praline chocolate centre he had ever eaten. It was superb.

The chef who had made this knew how to blend cocoa beans from different varieties to create a perfectly aromatic but smooth flavour—intense but enjoyable. Stunning.

Max immediately took a larger spoonful, then another, and savoured every morsel before looking up at his bemused former wife, who had barely taken a single spoonful.

‘Now, that was seriously good.’

‘Thought you’d like it. But I have to watch my weight—so, please, finish off mine as well. You know you want to.’

‘Pass it over! This is superb. In fact,’ he mumbled through tiny scrapings of cake, trying to make it last and prolong the pleasure, ‘this is so good it has given me an idea for the conference at the weekend. Kate, would you mind if I left you to your coffee for ten minutes? I need to track down the dessert chef who made this.’

‘Well, now’s your chance.’ Kate nodded over his shoulder. ‘She’s on her way over to speak to us.’

Max whipped around in his chair, and was halfway to a standing position when he lifted his chin and found himself staring at the white-coated chest of a girl he recognised only too well from the organic chocolate stall. She was wearing the gallery’s restaurant jacket now, but there was no mistaking that hair and those stunning eyes.

‘Daisy? What are you doing here?’

The startled look on her face as she took a step backwards was not perhaps the best reaction he could have hoped for, but it did give him a few seconds to connect his mouth and his brain.

‘Sorry, you startled me. I had no idea that you worked here as well.’ He tried to recover with a grin.

‘Just visiting,’ Daisy replied, and scooted around to the other side of the table to shake Kate’s hand. ‘Good afternoon. My name is Daisy Flynn, and I am the chocolatier for this restaurant. I notice that you ordered the chocolate and almond cake? I do hope that you enjoyed it.’

‘Oh, it was absolutely delicious. Catherine Ormandy. Lovely to meet you. In fact I was just telling Max here that the restaurant has quite a reputation for its wonderful chocolate desserts. Do you make them all yourself? Because they really are very special.’

‘You are very kind, Mrs Ormandy. My colleague Tara Hamilton and I run a company specialising in organic party food. But I do create all the chocolates and desserts by hand in our own kitchens. As well as party treats. In fact, I think your husband has already sampled some of my work—at our stall this morning.’

With that she stepped to one side and looked at him with a fixed, closed-mouth smile. ‘He seemed to think that I was intent on poisoning the tastebuds of the younger generation with sugar and additives. Isn’t that true, Mr Ormandy? I do hope that you’re not feeling ill after scoffing my chocolate dessert. Shame that my creamy boobs were not to your taste.’

Without giving him a chance to reply, Daisy swivelled back to Kate. She smiled warmly at her slightly stunned expression, just as Marco came over and stood by their table.

‘Ah. I see you have met our chocolate chef. Ms Flynn took top marks in the master chocolatier awards ceremony only last year, after training at Barone Fine Chocolate in Paris. We are hoping to persuade her to work with us a lot more.’

‘Thank you, Chef,’ Daisy said, and looked at the female diner while discreetly avoiding eye contact with her husband on the other side of the table. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Mrs Ormandy. I do hope that you have a splendid afternoon and will visit the restaurant again soon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will leave you in Marco’s capable hands.’ And with that she turned and walked slowly and calmly, head high, back in the direction of the kitchens.

She had almost made it as far as the swing door leading to the kitchen when a loud male voice called out behind her in a very distinctive accent she had heard before.

‘Miss Flynn? If you could wait a moment?

Miss Flynn?’

Fighting against her sudden desire to reach for the nearest heavy frying pan in the kitchen, Daisy stopped and inhaled deeply.

This man was Marco’s customer—and she owed Marco several favours. Not including the job offer. Insulting one of his diners was not perhaps the best way to win more orders from the restaurant chain. Even if this particular diner seemed to think that he knew more about chocolate than she did. At least his lovely wife had been charming. And he had bought some of her rabbits for his little girl, who probably idolised him.

That was it. He was a family man. Happily married. And one of Marco’s paying customers.

Be nice to the people who pay your wages, Daisy.

So she fixed a professional, all-weather, no matter how great the provocation neutral smile on her lips, lifted her chin and turned slowly around so that she was not blocking the kitchen door.

And instantly had to fling her back flat against the wall to stop him from sending her flying.

He was caught out by her sudden stop and grabbed hold of both her arms to stop himself falling and crushing them both on the floor. In the process he drew her to him so quickly that Daisy barely had time to breathe before she found herself pressed up against the front of his shirt.

Both of them sucked in a shocked breath, and for a moment time seemed to stand still before he took a step back to create an appropriate space between them.

Back at the food stall she had been too busy to notice more than his unruly long dark blond hair hanging from a side parting almost to the collar of his black shirt. But up close he seemed to tower over her, even in his fairly flat black boots. He had to be well over six feet tall, but it was the sheer breadth of the man that made her bristle and want to step backwards to get out from his shadow.

His fitted black shirt covered a hard body and wide shoulders—but that was only part of it.

His blue eyes were the colour of forget-me-nots in the spring, and they contrasted so intensely against his deep suntan and heavy eyebrows that they seemed to be illuminated from within. And at the moment those eyes were focused totally on her. Light from the large picture windows in the restaurant shone on one side of his face, throwing his long shapely nose and square jaw into sharp profile.

If it was not for the thin white scar that cut through one of his eyebrows, and the dark bruise of shadows under his eyes, she would have said that he was gorgeous.

But she would settle for the upper end of the handsome scale.

Overall, he was probably the most masculine man she had met in a very, very long time. Not that she met many male customers in a life that whirled between Tara’s flat and the kitchen they used for their catering business.

He took a step away from her and released her arms. She inhaled the scent of cheese and lunch, good bread and … chocolate. Not the full-cream praline chocolate she had used to make the dessert he had just enjoyed, judging from the clean dessert plates, but an undercurrent of bitter, sharp and aromatic cocoa. As distinctive as any type of coffee or wine. And, to her attuned senses, as tantalising as the most expensive cologne any Paris perfumier could concoct.

That was probably why her throat went amazingly dry the instant one side of his mouth turned up into a cheeky smile which creased the side of his face and was obviously intended to make her swoon at his charm.

Not going to happen.

Even if it was remarkably effective. And he still smelt amazing.

She flicked her hair back behind one ear, desperate for something to do whilst attempting to find out why he had called to her. Perhaps his lovely wife had sent him to apologise, and he was being a dutiful husband?

Then she looked into his eyes.

Okay. Perhaps not such a good boy after all.

In fact those eyes were sparkling with excitement, and an interest which seemed to be aimed at her.

A frisson of more than professional interest lit like a fuse inside her poor heart—before she dumped a large bucket of icy water over it.

This was a married man with a child, whose mother was still sitting in the retaurant! The sooner she remembered that and let him get back to his coffee and his elegant and stunningly beautiful wife the better.

Handsome people who had won first prize in the gene pool lottery belonged together—not in kitchens with the hired help.

Daisy lifted her chin. She had waved goodbye to being second best the day she’d packed her bags and left Paris and her cheating former boyfriend Pascal behind. Not even this Greek-god-handsome face and body were going to sway her down that rocky path again. She had learnt the hard way that good things did not always come in beautifully wrapped packages.

This man looked like a praline wrapped in gold foil, but for all she knew that tempting cover might well conceal a bitter lemon boiled sweet. All promises. No delivery. Been there, done that, and hadn’t even come back with the T-shirt to show for it.

‘Did you need something, Mr Ormandy?’ she asked in as sweet a voice as she could manage—but the tone seemed to emerge as a sort of a squeak.

‘I was hoping that you might spare me a few minutes to talk about a business proposition, Ms Flynn. And please call me Max, as all my friends do,’ he murmured, and flashed her the full-on charming smile which, aimed at any other woman, would instantly have had her on her knees.

The cheek of the man! His wife was still in the same room, chatting to the head chef. She didn’t know what kind of business proposition he had to offer her, but she knew she didn’t want anything to do with it.

Even so, she had to rally her defences before replying.

‘A business proposition? What kind of business could we possibly have in common? Unless, of course, you happen to be in the chocolate trade? That is the only way you could tempt me to take you seriously.’

She had intended him to take her question as a joke. After all, she wasn’t interested in the least in whatever he had to offer.

This was why his reply hit Daisy right between the eyes and rendered her completely speechless.

‘Actually, I am in the chocolate trade. I happen to own an organic cocoa plantation in St Lucia. The Treveleyn Estate grows some of the finest organic cocoa beans in the world, and I’m looking for a dessert chef who is as passionate about chocolate as I am. Tempted now?’